The headlights flash off polished
slate headstones. The cars flash past
Calvary's corner lot,
cruising in a blurred
swoosh.

Darkness draws back from
the dizzying roadside hum,
nestled in the oaks' strong arms,
retreating to a shadowy solace.

In the farthest corner,
there are rose blooms in October,
red dozens remember
one starry-eyed cheerleader.

It's a nest of fragile thorns
among flocks of oak leaves,
stiff succulent stalks
among scraping, withered scraps.

But this is no refuge
of life among living death.
In cut roses, death is fresh--
red still bloody, thorns strongest
right after the final breath.

The candlelight wavers
in the cold October
gusts. Wax pours down the taper
dropping like unsalted tears.

Aleia Dawn Anderson

I remember how she spoke
one beautiful May afternoon
of the tragedy, finality
of Death. She wore a black
carnation and a black
tombstone paper cut-out. In white
chalk somebody had written
"Aleia Anderson" in careful
print, just as a reminder
of what could happen when
people drink and drive (people
like that bastard twenty-six
year old on a midnight beer run,
for instance). I remember not
really paying attention, turning
my head and talking to a friend.

There's an awkward silence
between the two of us.
I fumble with my thoughts,
but she has time, so she waits.

I wonder where to speak,
how loud and how she'll react.
My mind is a burning wreck,
my heart meek, my voice weak.

I remember another October.
We wrote our thoughts on
this empty piece of white
butcher paper, and I,
dumbfounded, couldn't find
one word worthy of writing.
"Even my pen fails me..."

And now my eyes. Now I,
kneeling in a cemetery,
staring in Death's slate eyes
cannot muster tears, cannot cry.

There is a swell building
under the sternum, growing
and tumbling, then pushing
to my tongue. Nothing.